Boston in a Day

Most everyone knows I'm from Pawtucket, RI, born just outside Boston in Norwood, Massachusetts. I've seen Boston many a time, though not in recent years, but this was the first time Adam had ever been. We're hoping to plan a New England trip again in the coming years. One where he and I can explore and see old friends in Rhode Island, where I lived, danced, went to school. Maybe get extra touristy and watch the leaves change. ;) We had a day to explore until we needed to be back at the airport for our flight home and we made the most of it. 

Union Oyster House with my sweet.

We had another amazing meal, this time at the Union Oyster House, the oldest restaurant in America. Lobster, clams, oyster, chowder. YUM!! Maeve was seated next to my mom and kept trying to pet her lunch. Hilarious. 

Trying to pet the lobster like a doggie.

After lunched we walked over to Faneuil Hall to explore the shops, street performers and the Freedom Trail.  We gathered up a few souvenirs too: a beer stein for Adam, and a "future Harvard freshman" romper for Maeve. Right in front of Faneuil Hall is the statue of Sam Adams, and not far to his left is the park bench where my dad proposed to my mom after a Neil Diamond concert. 

Mom & Dad, married 27 years this February.

Adam and me in front of Sam Adams at Faneuil Hall.

We are big tour fans. Ghost tours, historic tours, brewery tours...had we had more time we would have loved to take one of the Freedom Trail, but instead we speed walked a third of it. We made it to the airport in the nick of time too, and Maeve was an exhausting handful while we were parked on the tarmac for 30min. 

My two favorite people! Our sweet wiggle-worm was full of loud (but happy) shrieks on the plane.

Thank goodness Adam was there because I felt like my arms couldn't hold her squirmy self any longer. As stressful as flying to my parents with her at eight weeks was, even with help this was a lot harder. Not gonna lie, we're both a little terrified of what it's going to be like when we fly to Hawaii at Christmas. Luckily, she gave up pretty quickly in flight and made for a peaceful ride home, sleeping in Adam's lap.

Landing in DFW at 10:30pm she was sound asleep.

Maine by Whirlwind

The Bush's vacation home in Kennebunkport, Maine

Our last two days in New England were a complete whirlwind. Everyone left to return to their everyday lives save the "O"s, O'Connells and my frousin Shannon. Naturally this could only mean one thing. Roadtrip to Maine! We piled back into cars and headed up the highway to Kennebunkport, Maine. Our Great-Aunt Barbara has a summer camp there and needed to pick up a few things and it afforded us some beautiful scenery and even more lobster. 

(Did I mention we ate our weight in lobster over those four days? Yum!!)

That would be Adam's two foot long lobster roll. And yes, he ate the entire thing.

Ready for lobster! ;)

We ate lunch at The Bull & Claw. A local restaurant in Wells, Maine it had been established in the 1970s and looked it; don't get me wrong here, the food was incredible, but it looked like all that had changed was the staff and their dishrags in the last forty years. Maybe it was the lack of sleep but Shannon and I got a fit of the giggles when they brought out an ancient highchair on wheels. I seriously believe it was original to the place, it wasn't terribley good at keeping her contained but Maeve loved using it to launch herself away from the table (repeatedly). 

Maeve's fancy chair circa 1973

Maine was beautiful, surprise, surprise. It was a cool and wet kind of Sunday. When we drove past the beach we rolled our windows down to taste the gray salty air and I so wanted to stop and take a walk on the beach. The weather all weekend was such a relief from our Texas heat. We've had a break this week with some much needed rain and a drop in temperatures, but when we left it was 106* here and 80* in Westford. Yes, please. The food was incredible; I literally had lobster for every meal but breakfast. Makes me hungry just thinking about it! The extra time with Aunt Barbara was a luxury, she can make you laugh like nobody's business and in small ways reminds me of our Granio. She's a hoot and a half with her stories and running commentary. She made the trip all the more fun.

At Aunt Barbara's in Maine

Frousins

With my parents ❤

Aunt Barbara, my mother and Shannon

On Monday we said goodbye to Shannon as her limo drove her away. The horror on her face when she realized her dad had sent a limo makes me laugh to think about, and my dad thought it too funny not to poke her and kept announcing to the entire dining room that her limo had arrived with her driver. 

Madame Shannon and her driver Pip, she's just fancy like that.

Barbara was off to pack for her upcoming trip, so with a hug and a kiss she was gone too and the "O"s and O'Connells were en route to Boston for a day of exploration for Adam. 

Sweet Maevey Bean and her Great-great Aunt Barbara

Stories for the Kids

It is said that "Great stories happen to those who can tell them." One of my favorite things about my dad is his gift for just that, storytelling. I think it tends to drive my mom crazy, and I can't quite read my brother, but I love hearing the same stories over and over. "Tell the one about the bees in the barn...or the time you were Santa Claus...or when you proposed...or when you had the ponies...OH!! Tell about the Middle East!" And he knows, and he smirks and he tells it. 

Two of our storytellers, Dad and "Uncle" Kurt 

Turns out he's not the only storyteller in our family. One of the fun things about our weekend in New England was all the family. Though we were missing a few (hello out there Florida Hansons!!) we were a pretty big group. Cousins upon cousins, from the Hanson, Blanchard and O'Connell sides. The stories were my favorite part. My dad's cousin Mary Lou, daughter to our grandfather's oldest brother, held us captive with stories of our great-grandparents and their boys. Telling what she remembered of our great-grandmother Mary-Katherine, an Irish beauty who came over on her sister's birth certificate; of our opinionated great-grandfather and his five tall, rowdy Irish boys. How, though none of them was born a Patrick (there was our PopPop Francis, a John, a Billy...) They were all called Pat. Big Pat, Baby Pat, Middle Pat....and how she remembered mail came to her father and several of his brothers often addressed to Patrick O'Connell. :) Our Great-Aunt Barbara, our Granio's younger sister, had stories to share. Quick to make you laugh, and wonder about what she and her two sisters must have been like as girls. Uncles and cousins were there to tell stories of summers spent in Westford. Of the family farm, of Kimball's ice cream, of the church and the school. Life before us.

The family.

Adam and Dad did a switch for memories sake.

 We spent the weekend listening; piling into cars our parents and uncles and great-aunts drove. Children again, for a weekend. Seperated at our own "kids" table, coming quickly when were told the "grown ups" were ready to move on and then lauging that we fell into old roles so quickly, all of us now adults. We took a family guided tour of all things Westford. A hazy memory to me, it was new to some and so special to share.

That's right. They are feeding my ten month old baby a hot fudge sundae from Kimballs. 

Blanchard Girls. Kaitlin (25) Kailyn (24) Shannon (28) Becca (20)

Strong Roots

A friend recently told me, " To know and share who you are you must first set the context-where are your roots? Roots are important. Sustenance comes from the roots. Support comes from the roots. And whether you like it or not, where you come from colors your entire life moving forward." 

My brother and me with Granio at our lakehouse in the Adirondacks ; one of her favorite places. 

This past week our little band of three moved our way towards my Yankee North to reunite with the O'Connells, Hansons and Blanchards. My daddy's roots. My roots. My daughter's. My grandmother, whom we lovingly called Granio, passed away last November but her memorial service was held in her home town of Westford, MA last weekend. And it was sad, and it was beautiful, and we even dared to make jokes. We knew she would scold us  for not wearing practical shoes, for bringing a sleeping baby, for having this memorial at all, and especially for crying. My father and uncle, her only children, both spoke, as did my cousin Shannon and I. There was even a sweet minister, and a few of us chuckled when he shared how she had been the organist at the local church for so long. Clearly he had never met our grandmother (it was her mother who played) because she had a real disdain for organized religion and didn't hold her tongue for those who found peace in it. 

A church organist she was not. 

Granio at the beach.

What she was was a strong, full of opinion, full of spunk, independent wild woman. She climbed trees and rode horses; loved camping and animals. She love the beach and the mountains and never felt a need to choose. She created adventures, told stories and laughed. I feel I can confidently say there was nothing she was afraid of. She was also beautiful. Beautiful curly red hair and icy blue eyes on a soft creamy complexion. She was my pen pal. The kind of grandmother who wrote several times a month, and saved every letter she received in return.  Losing her has hurt quite a lot, and I think until Saturday it still seemed pretty unreal. Throughout the year something would happen and I'd think how I couldn't wait to write her about it, or maybe call. Maeve learning to crawl, starting Wonderfully Made or my latest adventures with my cousins, brother or Adam. And then I'd cry. And I'd stuff it down, and shut it off because it hurt. Because what I want it to be is that she's too busy to take a phone call, or stop to read a letter. I don't want her to be gone. 

Her alter beneath the trees.

So Saturday was good. It was sad, and it hurt, but it was good. She picked the spot out herself, a beautiful patch of grass beneath two big, beautiful trees. The same cemetery where her parents, and many of our ancestors lay. The same cemetery that our great-grandfather used to care for, that our dads grew up playing in. That Ryan and I "drove" our dad's car in as children. A place where our family is; where our roots are. My Granio, our family's matriarch, Millie, is a woman I'm proud to have my roots in. I hope I share in her strength and sense of adventure. That I can find a way to think of her and say "I am not afraid." I appreciate the gift God gave me, my brother and my cousins in having her in my life for twenty-five years. The stories I can tell, the memories I can share. 

And when I look down at my curly-red haired girl with those blue eyes and soft creamy complexion and she tears through the house, my little wild woman; I know my Granio has never really left. I'm lucky enough to have a tiny piece of her within me, and within Maeve. 

Our roots run deep.

Maeve with my Dad.